


The Act of Deconstructing

by someonelsesheart



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Fix-It of Sorts, Hurt/Comfort, Redemption
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-24
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-06-15 12:09:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15412599
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/someonelsesheart/pseuds/someonelsesheart
Summary: Widow joins Overwatch, loses her mind, falls in love, and makes herself new. Not necessarily in that order.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a Thursday when Winston turns up on Widowmaker’s doorstep.

It’s a funny thing – one moment you’re a seasoned assassin; the next you’re talking to an intelligent monkey on your porch. She doesn’t invite him in, and he doesn’t ask. She thinks he knows. If Widowmaker invited him into her house, it’d be like inviting him into her soul – cold, dreary, undecorated, _boring._

Boring isn’t a word anybody but Widowmaker would use to describe Widowmaker.

A funny thing.

“You could easily kill me if you wanted, I know that,” Winston says, and he has a little hat on. Something about the image is amusing. Widowmaker smiles a bit, which is embarrassing. “But I would like to talk.”

Of course he would. There’s Widowmaker, with her sharp claws and dead heart, and there’s Overwatch, who want to save her. Widow knows what Winston sees when he looks at her, and it’s not her: it’s a woman he used to know, with her kind eyes and pure soul, who didn’t kill her husband while he slept and felt no remorse. A woman who he probably thinks is still in there, somewhere, screaming to get out.

That might be how it works in the movies. It’s not how it works in real life.

In real life, there’s just Widow, one voice in her head but another person’s memories milling around like leeches. She wants to rip them out, sometimes.

“I will not join Overwatch,” says Widow.

Winston winces. “I wasn’t –”

“Yes, you were. And I will not.”

“You don’t work for Talon anymore,” says Winston, questioning, searching for answers he doesn’t have.

Widow doesn’t say anything. She wants a cigarette, but she doesn’t even smoke. Amélie did. Widow hates her, right then.

Winston probes, “Amélie.”

“My name is Widowmaker,” says Widow, mostly unimpressed, because it’s true. “It is not just me. I’m doing you a favour. Talon wants to kill me. Or, perhaps, they want to recapture me and brainwash me again. Both of those end badly for your little hero group.”

“Overwatch wants to defeat Talon,” Winston points out. “You aren’t putting us in any more danger than we are already in.”

Widow wants to laugh. “Say I joined you. Talon manages to get to me, brainwashes me. I come back to Overwatch. I kill every member of Overwatch, in their beds, while they dream of saving the whole fucking world. How does that sound to you, Winston?”

“You underestimate their abilities to look after themselves.”

Widow is, and she knows it – she has watched them for months now. McCree doesn’t sleep, really, too scared of the past crawling up his neck, which would make it hard. Tracer sleeps with her guns. D.va could be in her suit in a second, and a sniper isn’t too much against a suit of armour. Even Mercy, with her dainty hands and tiny pistol, sleeps with one eye open and her gun by her bedside.

Not easy. Doable, maybe.

If she wanted to.

She doesn’t really want to.

“You’ve considered it,” Winston says, and he sounds surprised. “I thought I was preaching to the dead.”

Widow does laugh, then. “You are. But yes, I have considered it. We have mutual interests. I might not believe in Overwatch, but we do have mutual interests.” She rests her hand on her gun, always at her side. “I’m a killer, monkey.”

“I’m aware.”

“I will work _with_ you,” Widow says, “but I will not work _for_ you. And working with you does not mean I won’t be a killer anymore. It’s what I am, and it’s what I do.”

Winston looks like he doesn’t agree, but he says, “Understood.”

Widow stares at him some more, like all the answers will present themselves. Then she sighs and says, “ _With_ you,” and Winston smiles.

*

 _With_ them means she still keeps her distance, though.

She moves to London, because it’s closer to Gibraltar, where they’ve temporarily set up, but not too close that she’s moving in with them. She gets a small apartment, and spends a day making the entire thing as safe as it can be. Being in Europe won’t make Talon give up on her, but she likes to think she feels a tiny bit safer, right here.

One midnight in April, Winston calls her for the first time.

There’s been a break in at one of their secure bases in Switzerland, and he wants her to go. He offers her Lucio, who she balks at because he may be talented but he’s far too boisterous and loud for a stealth mission. So, when Widow touches down in Switzerland, it’s instead to blonde hair and careful eyes.

“Mercy,” says Widow, somehow surprised despite herself. “Angela. I wasn’t aware you were coming.”

Mercy doesn’t make eye contact. “Winston requested it.” She’s dressed in a black shirt and snug black pants, and Widow’s eyes follow the curves of her body, before she catches herself and looks away.

She thinks Mercy might notice, anyway.

The base isn’t far, and Mercy drives. She seems comfortable, natural, here, in this country, which makes sense. Even with the wariness she holds around Widow, she still looks somewhat relaxed with her hands on the wheel, strands of hair blowing in the wind.

“It is highly likely that this is Talon, and that they will still be there,” Widow says, carefully, as they pull up to the base.

“I’m aware.”

“And you still want to come?”

Widow isn’t going to tell her to wait in the car, like a child. But Mercy looks so fragile and pale and harmless right there, and Widow knows she _isn’t_ harmless but she somehow feels like it’s her responsibility to protect her anyway.

“This is my job, Widowmaker,” says Mercy, and gets out of the car.

To her credit, Mercy makes almost no noise as they enter the facility. There’s no signs of breaking in, which Widow wouldn’t expect of Talon, anyway, but there is this: the words _coming for you_ written on the cold metal door.

Which means. Well.

“They knew you would come,” Mercy says, anxious.

“Of course they did.” Widow slings her gun at her waist and instead pulls out two knives, knowing that this could be a close fight. The door opens with Mercy’s key card to reveal a long dark corridor. There’s a noise coming from the end – a chilling scraping sound.

Widow steps into the hall first. Mercy follows, and the door shuts behind them, cloaking them in darkness. Widow isn’t scared – she can’t remember the last time she was – but she positions herself between Mercy and the noise. If Mercy notices, she lets it go.

“Tell me about your life now,” says Widow as they edge down the hall.

“Shouldn’t we be quiet?”

“It’ll distract me,” Widow says, when really she means _it will distract you,_ but she knows even now that Mercy’s a sucker for helping people.

“Well, I live in the headquarters, most of the time,” says Mercy. “There’s a lot more of us now, and it’s nice. I miss – I miss Jack, and Gabriel, but.” Widow thinks Mercy’s looking at her, but she doesn’t glance back to find out. “People change, and we lose the ones we love, and that’s life.”

 _Lose the ones you love._ Widow wonders if Mercy loved Amélie.

“I miss living here,” Mercy continues. “The culture. The weather. After Overwatch ended, I moved back here for a while. It was nice. Quiet. But I was so bored, and lonely.”

“I understand,” says Widow, because she does.

Sometimes she dreams of France. She can see her parents, bustling through a busy house. Her little sister, who loved the sea. But her parents are dead now, and her sister lives in Tokyo. They’re not even _hers,_ really, are they; they’re Amélie’s. Widow can’t steal them from her.

But she dreams anyway.

She’s about to say something – anything – when the scraping turns into a high screech. Widow approaches the door at the end of the corridor and steps through, knives at the ready. And of course it’s _him._

“Gabriel,” Mercy breathes, and Widow wants to scream at her. _No, that’s not Gabriel, that’s a man with Gabriel’s face._ Gabriel is long gone.

“Widow,” says Reaper, smirking. “You brought a little friend.”

At his feet lies a man with blood over his face and a crumpled bow in his hands. Widow thinks she knows him. She looks at him with pity. “Shimada.”

“I’ll kill you,” Hanzo says, maybe to both of them, maybe to nobody at all. The scraping noise must have been his bow being crushed under Reaper’s boot.

“You got yourself involved,” Reaper says, unsympathetic. He grabs a hard drive that Widow hadn’t even noticed from the console beside him. No doubt it’s got some important stuff on it. Stupid. Widow’s on him before he can even begin to flee, a knife at his throat, pressing her knee into his stomach.

“Well,” drawls Reaper. “If that’s how you feel, you’d need only ask, Widow.”

Widow glowers at him. She knows this man, _this_ Reaper, just like Amélie knew Gabriel, and he’s mostly talk. She’s not even sure he believes in half of the shit Talon represents. He’s just angry.

She feels him press a shotgun to her abdomen. Widow hears Mercy’s intake of breath behind her. Nobody moves.

“I have no want to kill you,” says Widow. “Just give me the hard drive.”

“I don’t particularly want to kill you either,” says Reaper. “Especially like this. Messy. But.” He shrugs. “I need the drive.”

He would shoot her. Widow knows this. He wouldn’t even hesitate. He likes her, probably, as much as one assassin likes another, but it’s just the job. Widow wonders if he remembers his past life, too. Wonders if there is any of Gabriel Reyes left in there.

Several things happened at once:

Widow grabs for the hard drive. Reaper grabs her by the neck, raising his gun. And an arrow buries itself in his back.

Hanzo Shimada watches, unmoved, as Reaper crumples to the ground, clutching at his stomach. Widow throws the hard drive to Mercy and dusts herself off. Then she looks down at Reaper, deliberating.

“Widow, we have to go,” she says. “You too, Shimada. Genji would be overjoyed to see you. Don’t even think about dying before we get there.”

“I am barely injured,” says Hanzo, insulted, as he climbs to his feet. But he doesn’t protest, following Mercy to the door.

Widow doesn’t move. She stares down at Reaper, still keeled over. He’d be dead before Talon gets here, if they do come at all.

“We should take him,” says Widow.

“What?” Mercy is taken aback. “Widow, I know – I know I said _Gabriel,_ but you know he just tried to kill you, right? That’s not Gabriel.”

“No, but he’s my – friend.” Widow pulls Reaper up by his arm and wraps it around her shoulders. He’s too delirious with pain and blood loss to complain. “I will look after him. He could be useful.”

“Yeah, when he backstabs us all.” But Mercy doesn’t protest either.

They get back to the car, and Widow lays Reaper out on the backseat. She knows taking out the arrow will only do more damage than good, but he looks so pale laying there. She checks his pulse, and it’s slow but regular.

He’s a brainwashed superhuman like her. He better fucking live through this.

Widow sits with him on the backseat and doesn’t speak even when they get onto the jet. Widow lays Reaper down on the floor, so as not to get blood on the nice seats, and kneels beside him, trying to work out how to approach this. She has him face down, so that the arrow isn't being pressed harder into his back, and she hopes he doesn't suffocate. What an end that would be. She’s surprised when Mercy joins her.

“How should we tackle this, then?” Mercy asks.

Widow looks at her. “You don’t have to help me. Us. You owe him nothing. He would have killed you without a second thought.”

Mercy grabs her staff and says, “He used to be my friend. Just like you did. I don’t believe everybody can be redeemed, but I like to think there’s some good in all people. _All_ people.”

Widow feels like the words are more aimed at her than Reaper. She says, “If I pull the arrow out, can you try to heal the wound?”

“I can, but…” Mercy looks closer at the arrow. “These arrows are barbed, which means if you pull it out it could do some serious internal damage that I might not be able to fix.”

“Do we have another option?”

Mercy shakes her head. “Not here. Not now. But he’ll be dead before we get back.”

Widow says, “We’ll do it, then.” She places her hands on the arrow. “Ready?”

Mercy says, “Yes.”

Widow pulls the arrow out.

Reaper screams.

*

Nobody is happy about Reaper being at the headquarters. They seem to accept Widow’s presence, to some extent, in the way that most of them probably see another woman. Widow spends all night by Reaper’s bed, waiting for him to wake up. He doesn’t.

“There’s a chance,” says Brigitte, hesitant, “that he might never wake up.”

Widow doesn’t say anything. She wonders where Mercy is.

“You could at least be grateful we’re even helping him,” Brigitte says, irritated.

“Is that not what you do, help all people? Selfless heroes and everything.”

“I help who I want to, not who I _have_ to,” Brigitte snaps. “Some people are better left on the ground. I believe in helping people, but I don’t help monsters.” She looks down at Reaper. “I don’t know what he is. But I remember him when he was Gabriel, from when I was a child.”

“He is worth saving,” says Widow.

“Perhaps,” Brigitte says, and then she looks Widow dead in the eye. “Are _you_?”

*

They give her a nice enough room that looks over the grounds. She doesn’t plan on staying once Reaper’s well again, but the room is pleasant. She finds a candle in her dresser and lights it, opens the window wide and lets the cool air in.

There were clothes in the dresser. She doesn’t know who they used to belong to, but they fit well. They give her a bad feeling in her stomach, but the robe she has on now is light and soft, and in that moment she feels gentle.

Then there’s a knock on the door, and her defenses go straight back up.

“Who is it?” Widow demands.

“I brought you dinner,” says Mercy. “Since you didn’t come.”

Widow opens the door and Mercy’s standing there, dressed a lot more casually than before, holding two plates in her hands. “I cannot possibly eat two dinners,” Widow says.

“It’s good that one’s for me, then,” Mercy says, and walks past Widow into the room. She sits at the small table and begins to eat.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Widow bites, but Mercy looks unphased. Widow reluctantly sits down opposite her and picks at her food.

Mercy glances at her, and then looks away, blushing. Widow wonders why before she realises she’s dressed only in the robe and underwear. She smirks.

“How close were you to Amélie?” asks Widow.

Mercy looks at her, like she’s struggling to make eye contact. “We were very close. She was my best friend.”

“Just your best friend?”

Mercy frowns. “What are you suggesting? She was married.”

Widow hums.

“How much of her life do you remember?”

Widow likes the way Mercy says _her_ life. Not _your_ life. Like she knows Widow and Amélie are two vastly different people. “I remember enough.”

Widow remembers satin skin and soft sheets. She remembers _Angela_ and _I love you_ and she wants to rip her skin off and make herself new. Into something that might be loved like that again.

“It was a long time ago,” says Mercy. “Before Gérard.”

Widow barely hears it. Her world is focusing into a pinpoint. Her hands are shaking; her heart is thundering in her chest. She wants to kill something. She says, “You should go, Ziegler.”

Mercy winces at _Ziegler._ “What is wrong?”

“Go.”

Mercy goes. She shuts the door firmly behind her, leaves her food sitting on the table. Widow throws one of the plates at the wall and watches it shatter and suddenly feels like a child throwing a tantrum. Her body feels too heavy for her. She is something between a woman and a killer, her humanity hanging from a thread. And Mercy is so soft, and so human, and Widow thinks if she touches her she might just break.

She slides down to the ground and thinks that, perhaps, if she could cry, she might have.

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

Sometimes, Widow dreams she’s dying.

It’s a fickle thing, death. Widow has wielded it and stared into its pale, unflinching face.  She has seen it in the eyes of others. And she has held it in her arms. Some people view death as a big, towering monster. Widow views it more as a tantruming child.

The dreams are not particularly unpleasant. They’re bitter, and they leave a taste in the back of her mouth. But she’s not _opposed_ to dying, exactly – with the things she’s seen and the things she’s done, sometimes Widow thinks it might be best. Not that she regrets what she’s done, exactly. That would be too simple. Too human. She just has a basic understand of morality and, maybe, karma.

Widow knows death will come for her earlier than most. She is amazed it hasn’t come for her yet.

She doesn’t tell Ana Amari this, though, as she sits opposite her in a small room that makes her feel like she’s suffocating. They observe each other – Amari curious; Widow wary and on edge.

“It’s just a simple psych eval,” says Amari. “Usually, we would have a stranger do it, but I felt this would be more comfortable for you. I’m trained in this sort of thing, if it makes you feel any better.”

It doesn’t.

Amari cycles through question after question – where did you grow up, how do you see yourself, do you regret your past actions – to which Widow mostly gives her one word answers. _France, grimly, no._

“You do not regret murdering innocents?” Amari sounds more curious than judgemental. “Not even children?”

“It’s unfortunate,” says Widow, and doesn’t tell her that she had never killed a child in her life. Whether it was some twisted remnant form of morality or not, she doesn’t know. Sometimes she wonders if leaving an orphaned child alive is a gift at all, though.

“I just wonder because,” Amari says, “Angela seems to be quite fond of you. Or hopeful. I believed I knew why – I thought she saw the girl she used to love in you. But she calls you _Widowmaker_ and seems completely aware of who you are and what you have done. I wondered what it is, exactly, that she sees in you.”

“The medic is hopeless,” says Widow, and doesn’t let the hope get to her. “She is a dreamer, who sees a person in me that does not exist.”

She knows it’s a lie the second she says it, and she thinks Amari does, too, from the small smile on her face. “So you _are_ aware that what you do is not right,” says Amari.

“As any assassin knows that killing unprovoked is morally wrong.” Widow shrugs and looks down at her nails. “If you are searching for a human in me, Amari, you will not find her. My soul is gone, and my heart is slowed. I do not feel emotions; I feel the echoes of emotions.”

“You see how what you have done makes others feel,” says Amari, “and you feel guilt and pain from that.” She doesn’t say _Mercy,_ but she doesn’t need to.

Widow says nothing, which is answer enough. She thinks that maybe Amari knows. Sees the look in Amari’s one eye, which watches her with fascination. There’s no judgement there, only understanding. Amari is old, old enough to have seen things that even Widow has not seen. Old enough to know that constructions of _good_ and _evil_ are not useful, or they are only useful for idiots.

“Do psych evaluations usually involve this sort of emotive interrogation?” Widow eventually asks, dry.

“Given you are not the typical patient,” says Amari, even, “this is obviously not the typical evaluation.”

Widow can’t really argue with that. “So what is the verdict, then?”

“Well, I don’t believe that you’re going to kill any of us while we sleep,” says Amari, “which is what they wanted me to find out.”

“But?”

“I’m worried about the effect you might have on _yourself._ ” Amari tilts her head. Somehow her gaze feels so heavy Widow struggles to keep eye contact. “The psychological, physical and emotional trauma you have undergone is heavy. It requires therapy, and healing.”

“I do not need therapy,” says Widow. “I’m not a child. I am well.”

“I mean, physically, yes, you’re exceptional, you pass all the tests.” Amari stands, then, and pulls on her gloves. “Mentally? You’re a ticking time bomb, and when you explode, I’m not worried about what you’ll do to others. I’m worried what you’ll do to yourself.”

*

Widow spends most of her time by Reaper’s bedside. It’s not that she’s ever particularly liked him. He’s cold, generally heartless, and she’s only ever seen him show sympathy towards children. Which is something, she supposes. Even when Widow did a misstep and was tortured for it, he wouldn’t get involved.

To some extent, she gets it – he didn’t want to face that torture himself. Behind the arrogant exterior, there was a terrified man who didn’t want any more pain. She gets it. She gets it, and.

And maybe that’s why she’s still here. Looking after him.

“You should eat,” Mercy says one night, while checking Reaper’s vitals.

“I do not need to eat,” says Widow. “A side effect.”

“That’s a lie.” Mercy finishes what she’s doing and turns to Widow. “I have seen your medical results. Yes, your body is far past the average human, but you are not immortal. You need some form of nutrition, if less than others. I suspect you could go two months before you became so weak you would no longer be able to fight.”

She says _fight,_ not move, because she knows that’s what Widow cares about. Her ability. Her usefulness. Widow grits her teeth. “I do not need somebody to mother me.”

“On the contrary,” Mercy says, “you are valuable to Overwatch, and I need you to take care of yourself so you don’t die. You’re no use to us dead.”

Yes. There she is, speaking a language Widow knows. _You’re no use to us dead._ For a moment, Mercy _is_ Talon, is every person who has ever told Widow she’s a weapon. A weapon with a use, and nothing else. Not human.

There’s a look in Mercy’s eyes then – guilt, maybe. She looks down. “My apologies. That was out of turn.”

“No,” says Widow. “You are correct.”

It’s been nearly a week. Reaper still hasn’t woken up. Widow heard them talking this morning: the damage was so severe he might never wake up, and if he was – _normal_ – he would be dead for sure. Dead five times over.

“Let’s go eat,” Widow says.

*

The food might be good, but Widow doesn’t really taste it. She feels a bit better, though, afterwards. More clear-headed. Like perhaps she can take on what the future has for her. Perhaps.

“If you’re interested, I think Winston has a recon mission for you tomorrow,” Mercy says, absently, and Widow knows _recon_ probably means _you’ll have to kill somebody,_ whether Mercy knows it or not.

Widow’s not entirely opposed to the idea. She likes killing. With these _morals_ that have been bothering her recently, she can understand that it’s wrong. But if Winston wants her to kill somebody, then they are probably fairly bad. Whatever _bad_ is, exactly.

Widow’s beginning to think that good and bad do not really exist at all; it just depends whose team you’re on. After all, Widow’s ‘bad’ until she’s with the ‘good’ team – but she’s still doing the same killing. Still taking people from their families. It is the same, bloody job.

They sit in silence for a while longer, when there’s an unexpected visitor to the food hall. Widow thinks Hanzo wasn’t expecting to see them there – wasn’t expecting to see _anyone_ there – judging by the look on his face. He looks ready to flee.

Mercy says, a little aggressively, “No, Hanzo. Come. Sit.”

Hanzo gets food and sits. Reluctantly. He looks a bit like a child being forced to sit through a school lesson.

Mercy says, “Have you spoken to your brother?”

“No,” Hanzo says.

“I’m sure he would love to talk to you.”

“Yes.”

Mercy looks despairing.

“Mostly,” Hanzo adds, warily, “I have had to deal with the cowboy, because he simply refuses to leave me alone.”

Mercy perks up. “McCree?” She laughs. “He can be annoying, but just tell him to go away. He’ll listen.”

Widow knows that this is true. He had tried to pester her, at first, and he had listened the third time she had threatened to kill him. After that, the man had grown on her. Sometimes, they went to the shooting range together. Sometimes he was the only conscious person she spoke with all day.

“He _is_ annoying,” agrees Hanzo.

“He didn’t go away when you asked him to? That’s strange.”

“Perhaps,” says Hanzo, which isn’t really an answer at all, and Widow smirks. She thinks he’s never even tried. Interesting.

“You should speak to your brother,” Widow says, and they both look at her in surprise. Reasonably, she supposes. She’s not exactly the coddling type.

“He has been pestering me about your wellbeing,” Widow says defensively. “It is annoying. I told him I barely see you. But he is persistent. Do us both a favour, archer.”

Hanzo looks chagrined. He says, “I am – apprehensive.”

“You’re scared,” says Mercy. “And that’s okay.”

“ _Scared,_ ” Hanzo spits. When he means to be, he can be positively vitriolic. “Shimadas are not _scared._ I am worried he will try to kill me, that’s all.”

“Genji is at peace now. He has learnt a lot from Zenyatta. He wouldn’t try to harm you, Hanzo.”

Hanzo still looks uneasy. Widow gets it: he _is_ scared. He’s scared because he knows he’s done wrong, by trying to kill his brother, but he won’t admit it. If you asked him, he’d tell you he did what he had to to protect the Shimada clan. That it was all justified.

But Widow knows the ugly look in his eyes. Powerful, overwhelming guilt and self-hatred. She thinks he might hate himself almost as she hates herself. And that’s a feat.

After Hanzo’s gone, Mercy still stays to keep Widow company. She must be tired – she has circles under her eyes and Widow knows she’s been working all day – but she stays anyway. Widow does not understand. She does not understand any of this.

“Do you think Shimada’s attracted to the cowboy?” Widow says, and Mercy blinks at her.

“You think – Hanzo’s into _McCree?_ ” Mercy scoffs. “Where did you get that from?”

Widow shrugs. “I suppose we will find out sooner or later,” she says, which really means _You’ll see that I’m right eventually. I’m always right._

*

Reaper wakes up a week later, while Widow’s on a mission. By the time Widow returns, everybody’s frantic and exhausted, and Reaper has been placed in a containment cell on his own.

Widow convinces them to let her in, given he is literally constrained, and decides not to mention that he could probably kill her with just his thighs.

He looks at her, confused and alert. “Why have you done this? Brought me here. We work for _Talon,_ Widowmaker, not these – these _do-gooders._ You know better, Widow.”

“I think,” says Widow, “that we might have been on the wrong team this time. Overwatch saved your life when Talon would certainly have left you to die.”

Reaper says, “Perhaps I would be better off dead.”

Perhaps she, Hanzo and Reaper could all start a self-hatred club. They would have wine, of course, and only French wine, and talk about the terrible things they’d done.

“Do not be stupid,” Widow says, unamused. “You do not have to stay. Overwatch will not try to make you stay, even if they could. They want your help, of course. Just like they wanted mine. But they will not force you.”

“I _owe_ them now,” Reaper spits.

“Debts are not kept in Overwatch as in Talon.” Widow looks down at her nails. “It is different here.”

“Nowhere is different, _Widow_ ,” says Reaper, bitter and defeated. “Everybody will let you down and stab you in the back. Better to befriend the snake than the mouse.”

“Your biggest mistake is thinking that Overwatch is the mouse in that scenario, _Gabriel._ ”

He flinches at the name, as if it was a slap he didn’t expect. There’s something wild in his eyes – desperate, unruly. Widow leaves him there, like a wild animal, sitting on the floor, curled into himself for safety.

*

Reaper leaves. Of course he does.

One moment he’s in the containment room; the next he’s gone. But he does not hurt anybody on his way out, which, Widow thinks, might be progress.

*

Some nights, Widow drinks with Amari. They don’t talk about much, but when they do, it’s some stupid deep shit about how broken they are, and Widow hates it but also she kind of loves it. They drink straight whiskey, usually, and it’s so cliché, and it’s the most peaceful Widow has felt in weeks.

“I saw Jack in Egypt,” Amari admits after a few drinks. “We spent Christmas together. It was nice.”

“Do you love him?” Widow asks, genuinely curious.

“Love him now? No.” Amari shrugs. “People change. They become new people. And that’s fine – trauma will do that to you. Perhaps I loved the man he once was. I don’t love the man he is anymore.”

The words jar with Widow, though she cannot quite put a finger on why. She says, “Is it because he’s – colder now? A killer?”

“Not really.” Amari shrugs. “The man was always a killer. We all were. We thought we did it for the good of our world, but who knows why we did it. Maybe because we enjoyed it, like you.” She plays with a ring on her finger. “When he came back, it was like he still cared about me, but there was always something missing from his eyes. The passion. The drive. That was what I loved about him, and it was gone.”

Widow hums. Amari says, too knowing, “It’s not always like that, you know. Sometimes people become new people, but they become _good_ new people, just different. And that’s still worth loving.”

“Oka – ay,” says Widow, dragging the vowel a little bit, unsure why she was being told this.

“Just a thought,” Amari says, and finishes her drink.

*

Widow goes on a mission for Winston. And another mission. And another. Before long, she’s the one he sends for the serious ones – the ones that require finesse. Sometimes McCree comes with her, sometimes Lucio does, but usually it’s just her, the silence of darkness, and the slide of the sniper rifle in her hands.

There’s one with Mercy, which is rare, because the doctor is usually away or too busy, and it’s messy. People die, innocent people, and _children._ She thinks that’s what makes it so hard. Widow doesn’t kill kids. She doesn’t particularly want to see them dead either.

When she finds Mercy after the mission, the doctor's outside, standing by the cliffs and smoking. Mercy watches the ocean rear up and hit the rocks, and doesn’t move away when the water brushes her skin.

Widow comes up behind her and says, “You smoke?”

“Ah,” says Mercy, and immediately drops the cigarette and puts it out with her foot. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“What a good doctor you are,” Widow says, a bit mean, but Mercy just snorts.

“I’m no less human than you,” she says. “Besides, today was terrible. Though I suppose it was nothing to you.” She sighs. “Just – innocent people. And _children._ ”

“It wasn’t nothing to me,” Widow says, and could leave it at that. But instead, she continues, “I’ve never killed a child.”

Mercy looks at her, surprised. “Why?”

“I don’t really know why,” says Widow. “It feels wrong.”

Of course she knows why. Because there are few innocent things left in this cursed world, and she can’t ruin what there is. Because she remembers Amélie's little sister, and the way she had admired Amélie, and the way she had been taken from the world too young. Amélie had never really recovered.

Mercy looks at her then, and there’s something in her eyes. Widow can’t quite work out what it is. They feel too close, suddenly, the air between them tense. Widow feels frozen. Mercy leans towards her, just a little, and Widow’s eyes drop to her lips.

The sea hits the cliffs again, splashing them, waking them from their moment. Widow takes an unconscious step back, and the unseen _thing_ between them shatters.

Mercy says, “I better go back in,” and Widow only notices then that she’s shivering in only a shirt. “It’s freezing out here.” She looks at Widow for a moment, waiting, and Widow debates offering her own jacket. But that would be too much.

She regrets her decision as Mercy sighs and turns away. Widow watches her walk all the way back to the base, arms wrapped around herself. Something inside Widow feels cold and wrong. She doesn’t move from the cliffs for a long time.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

She seeks Mercy out. Despite everything inside telling her to just run, to _leave,_ Widow goes to Mercy’s room. Empty. She tries the training grounds. Those are empty, too. She finds Mercy talking to Genji in the kitchen.

Mercy looks so tired. Neither of them see Widow, hesitating in the doorway.

“Isn’t it wrong of me, morally wrong,” says Mercy, “to want to love a murderer?”

Genji hums. “Zenyatta would say anybody could be forgiven,” he says. “I do not believe that, but – I do think there is more to take into account. It is not necessarily her choice to murder. She has been made this way.”

“She continues to make the choice,” says Mercy.

“Perhaps the question you need to ask yourself,” says Genji, “is are you _willing_ to love a murderer?”

Widow leaves. She doesn’t need to hear this.

 _Love,_ she hears, and _murderer,_ and the world suddenly feels so, so big and crushing on her shoulders.

*

Widow leaves for a mission in America the next day. It’s mid-July in Gibraltar, the heat just beginning to hit. One of the posts in New York has been attacked, two people dead, and they need to find out why and how _now._ What, exactly, it is that Talon want so much. There’s been a pattern recently – the attack on the base in Switzerland, then one in Spain, another in Zimbabwe, and then this one in New York.

By the time she returns, filthy and exhausted, the blood of twenty-two Talon agents on her hands, it’s already August.

“You did a good job,” Winston says, and he doesn’t mention the killing. It’s necessary, they both know. But she can tell it doesn’t sit well with him. “We know what they want now,” he adds. “And they will not get it. Don’t worry.”

They know what Talon wants. It’s what they’ve always wanted – _her._

Reaper hasn’t given away their location. And Widow doesn’t really know what to think about that.

Of course Talon knows Gibraltar exists. But for years now, the places has been shrouded in an illusion of Winston’s making – all scientific, of course, but designed the hide the base away from prying eyes. She supposes that Talon simply have never bothered to look harder.

America had been a trap. Talon had _known_ she would go. And maybe Widow had known too.

There is a blank spot in her memory – between Monday and Friday – where Talon had taken her by surprise, captured her and tried to brainwash her again. She hadn’t Winston that part. She didn’t think he needed the concern.

But Widow was not going to come back to kill her friends while they sleep. She’d had her revenge, anyway, when she killed every last one of them.

 _Murderer,_ she hears, again and again. She finds her bed, curls herself up in her covers like a child, and doesn’t think of Mercy at all.

*

Mercy isn’t there, either, as it turns out. She’s out somewhere in Cornwall, helping civilians there. Widow hasn’t really had the _time_ to think about Mercy while she’s been away, but she’s still been there anyway, in the back of her head. _Want to love,_ she tells Widow in her dreams, and _you’re a murderer._

Widow finds McCree in the training range, just where she hoped he would be. He doesn’t look up when she enters, and he doesn’t tense either. He _trusts_ her, and that’s a baffling thing. What reason does a cowboy have to trust an assassin?

He’s right, though. Widow would do anything to protect her friends, and that includes not betraying them.

“You look tired, _mon petit_ Cowboy,” she says, and he scoffs, taking a shot at the target. He hits it dead on, right between the eyes.

“You can talk,” he says, and he laughs. He _does_ look exhausted – more lines around his eyes than there used to be, more tension in his shoulders. “How’ve you been? Get that messy stuff sorted in the good ol’ land of the free?” He says _land of the free_ like he thinks it’s anything but.

“Yes, it’s done,” Widow says, and his eyes drop to her belt, to her hands, suddenly noticing she doesn’t have her rifle with her.

McCree raises an eyebrow. “Awful strange to come to a training range with nothing to train with.”

Widow considers making up an excuse, but before she can she finds herself admitting, “I just wanted to see you.”

His expression softens, and there’s something crumbling there – she’s not sure what, or how, but she can see the sadness clear as day.

Widow doesn’t really know how she became friends with the cowboy. He’s good at being silent when she just wants to shoot something, knows when he can talk and when he probably shouldn’t. Widow wonders what Amelie thought of him, if she knew him well.

“Ah,” says Widow, because she realises it then, “it’s the Shimada, isn’t it?”

McCree flushes and turns back to his target, but he doesn’t deny it. “Just let me shoot my gun in peace,” he says, which she takes to mean _yes, he’s broken my heart and I don’t know what to do._

Because she understands, Widow says, “Okay,” and sits down on the bench nearby. She doesn’t speak again, but she thinks they’re on grounds of mutual understanding with each other: two heartbroken idiots who have no fucking idea how to love, just enjoying each other’s company.

*

Mercy doesn’t return for a long time.

Too long.

Days pass and nights come and go, and on the fifth week of Widow’s return, she seeks out Winston and demands to know what’s going on. Winston admits he hasn’t heard from Mercy in two weeks but _he’s got it under control, he really does, she’s probably just lost communication._

“In _Cornwall?_ ” Widow demands, and she sees red.

Winston looks a little nervous, then – not scared of her, exactly, but not entirely comfortable being around her. He’s never looked like that before. She clenches her fists and tries to reel it in.

“It’s possible Talon have gotten to her,” Winston says, reluctantly. “I’ve sent agents to search for her. I did not want to send you, because – well…”

Because that’s exactly what they want. Isn’t it? They want _her._ And somehow, maybe through Reaper, maybe through other intel, they’ve somehow found out that Widow has a soft spot for the doctor.

And now Mercy might die for it.

“Tell me everything you know,” Widow says. She’s already messaging Brigitte to get her gear ready. “I’ll go.”

Winston doesn’t protest, because he seems to know there’s no question there. He passes her a brief – too light – and says, “All our agents are important, Widow. None are more important than others. Be careful.”

She doesn’t know what he means by that, so she just leaves, the brief gripped so tightly in her hands it almost rips.

*

The plane ride there seems too long, like she’s losing the chance of finding Mercy alive with every second. She doesn’t even try for Cornwall, because she knows that Talon has a base near London, on the outskirts of Luton. It’s raining when she lands, and the sky is dark even though it’s two in the afternoon. Widow grimaces and pulls her jacket on, hood up.

If they want her, they know she’ll know where to find them. Talon will have known she was there from the second she landed, which is why she’d told her pilot to leave the second she was out of the plane. They’ll be waiting for her.

The base is a relatively small one. On the street, it looks like a business building, but in reality it goes much, much further underground. Widow doesn’t bother to knock – rather, she kicks the door down with her heel, and it swings open.

It wasn’t even locked. Of course.

She walks through the house and finds the latch she knows is there. It takes her underground. She’s surrounded by metallic walls and, in the distance, she can hear the faint beeping of machines. When she reaches the main area, it’s black. She feels ill imagining what she will see when she turns on the lights, but she does it anyway.

Nothing.

There’s nobody here. The place looks like it hasn’t even been touched in months, maybe years. There’s a thick layer of dust covering everything, and she coughs when leaning against a surface sends it flying into the air.

Widow scours the whole place, wondering if this is some sort of trick. She wouldn’t be surprised. It would not be the first time Talon had pulled some elaborate scheme, but – there really isn’t anything there. They’re not _here._

This is the only base Talon has in England. She knows that. She _knows_ that.

So either Talon don’t have Mercy, or they don’t even want Widow at all. They want Mercy because – they _want_ Mercy, because she is the smartest doctor in the whole goddamned world, because she’s invented so many incredible things, and she could create so many awful things for _them._

Widow imagines a brainwashed Mercy for a moment, and she’s filled with the worst all-consuming anger she’s ever felt in her life.

Widow never knew she could feel so _much._

She finds her way back aboveground and relishes the fresh air. She doesn’t get it, not a little bit – how can they not be here? Where else could Talon possibly be holding Mercy? She doesn’t think they would’ve left the country, not if they really do want Widow.

Maybe Talon wants the two of them. Widow wouldn’t be surprised.

Back on the street, she tilts her head up to the sky, which is still spitting with rain, and closes her eyes. In that moment, despite the bustling surrounding her, she feels completely peace. Her mind clears. All she can think about is finding Mercy, and she _will,_ but she can’t do it when she’s falling to pieces.

“An escalating situation occurring in central London at the moment,” she hears through a window somewhere. “Talon have taken over an office building. Several people are dead already. They have yet to make demands.”

Widow’s eyes snap open.

_Of course. A display._

Talon doesn’t want her. They want her to ruin herself – they want Overwatch to regret ever taking her on. They want Overwatch’s already unsteady reputation to be dragged through the dirt.

She steps out onto the curb and waves down a cab.

*

The cab can’t even get her close. All the surrounding streets have been closed. Widow gets thrown out somewhere by a park and has to travel on foot to the business district. It’s raining even harder now, which is just wonderful, and she thinks she hears thunder rumbling in the distance. By the time she reaches the building – one of the taller ones in London, and it has smoke coming out of the windows – there’s a huge crowd surrounding it.

Idiots, she thinks. All of them. Desperate to glimpse a moment of fame, maybe see a villain or five. Widow knows all the workers were successfully evacuated, to the bewilderment of the Met. She also knows that the Met don’t understand this isn’t your typical hostage situation – even if they don’t even _know_ if Talon have a hostage yet.  

She pushes her way through the crowd and doesn’t even humour the police who try to stop her near the doors. She hears one say, “Mate, look, it’s that Widowmaker woman,” and the hands retreat from her shoulders – perhaps out of respect, probably out of fear.

She bursts her way through the doors and tastes smoke. The elevators are out of service, so she has to take the stairs up. She doesn’t have time to check every floor, but she knows where Talon has set themselves up anyway – had seen it from the news choppers, the black figure standing out against the skyline.

She hadn’t thought he would betray her.

At least – not like _this._ Bitterly. Without honour.

She’s tiring by the time she reaches the fiftieth floor, and finds the emergency exit to the roof. She grips her rifle a bit tighter, makes sure that her knives are in their sheathes. Will she have to kill him to save her? Would she even be able to? Widow isn’t sure.

Widow steps through the door, onto the roof, and immediately feels the press of a blade to her neck.

“Ah,” she says. “What a wonderful welcome.”

Moira smiles at her. That crazy smile, a little sad around the edges. “Did you expect a welcoming party, sweetie?”

Widow would laugh if she couldn’t feel the cold metal against her throat. She looks across the roof and there’s Mercy – unharmed other than a few bruises, handcuffed and unconscious on the ground. _Safe,_ though. The relief almost overwhelms her.

Reaper is there too, of course, looking his usual moody self, and next to him – Widow shivers. Sanjay, looking as impassive as always, and Maximilien, who doesn’t really _have_ any other facial expressions. Her fingers itch with the urge to put a bullet in both their heads.

She had grown fond of Reaper, and even Moira at times, even though Moira contributed to _making_ her this way, but Sanjay and Maximilien – they made her skin crawl.

Mercy stirs, then, eyes opening into slits. She doesn’t look scared, exactly, as she takes in her surroundings. More resigned. Angry.

“Reaper,” murmurs Widow, and he’s a little way away but she knows he hears her. “I dared to think better of you.”

He just laughs at her. “You should know better, Widow. Not all of us are dirty traitors like you.”

Even before she’d betrayed them, it had always been like this – Sanjay, Maximilien, Moira, Reaper and Doom, who had clearly not graced them with his presence today, debating the future of Talon while she did the dirty work. She doesn’t miss it, even when she realises she might just die here.

Even with Moira’s knife against her throat, she knows she could have two of them dead and the other two incapacitated in five seconds given the opportunity. But Reaper’s looming over Mercy in a way that seems like a threat, and Widow can’t take any chances with somebody else’s life.

“So, what, exactly,” Widow says, “are you planning on doing here?”

Sanjay nods to a bomb ticking down nearby. He says, “In two minutes, that will explode. You couldn’t possibly get to the bottom of this tower in that time, and we – well, _we_ have an easy getaway.” Widow can hear helicopter blades already. “We will be taking Miss Ziegler, here, and you will be dead and the reason for thousands of deaths.”

Of course. The bomb explodes and it won’t just take down this building, but the nearby buildings, all the civilians and police down below, anybody within a near radius. They’ll find the bomb, and her body, and think it was her – think it was _Overwatch_ ’s fault for trusting in an ex-Talon agent.

And worst of all, Talon will still have Mercy in their filthy hands.

Even if Widow hijacked the helicopter, thousands of people would still die. Widow shouldn’t care – _doesn’t_ really, in the cold dead place where her heart might be – but she knows Mercy would. And Overwatch would. Mercy looks at her with desperate eyes and Widow looks away.

She knows what she has to do, and that’s what makes it so much worse.

Before Moira can begin to move towards the helicopter, Widow grabs her and knocks her down in one swift blow. She shoots Sanjay in the leg, breaks off Maximilien’s arm and knocks him out with it, and then turns to look at Reaper. She hesitates.

He doesn’t move towards her.

When the bomb begins to flash _00:00:20,_ she grabs it and runs for the helicopter. She hears Mercy yell something behind her, but there’s no time. She puts it on the seat next to her, kicks the helicopter pilot out, and takes off as she hears Sanjay swearing at it. When she looks back, Mercy is wide-eyed and pale – maybe crying but surely _not,_ not over Widow, not over a murderer – and Reaper is just watching, silent, unmoving.

She thinks maybe she understands now.

They all had their own little betrayals.

She flies as high as the helicopter will go, even as the bomb ticks down, even as the helicopter whines at the altitude. It hits 00:00:05, and she wonders what would happen if she stayed in the helicopter. Let it explode into flames around her. If she would be granted the mercy of death.

Widow doesn’t want to die. Not anymore.

She throws herself from the helicopter as it bursts into flames above her.

*

Sometimes, she dreams she’s falling into a void, falling into herself, collapsing, and Mercy grabs her from the void and pulls her out, tells her she’s stupid and she needs to be braver and somehow she feels braver.

_I’m so sorry, this is all my fault. I don’t know whether you’re good or you’re bad but I don’t care. I don’t care, do you hear that?_

Her body is made of a series of indestructible broken things. She can’t be touched, and it’s damn fucking hard to kill her, but she could fall apart at any time. _I’m worried what you’ll do to yourself._ Widow almost wants to laugh.

_I know you heard me say you don’t deserve my love and I know I was wrong, and you probably don’t even want it. You probably don’t want it, but. You can have it, if you want._

But this is just a voice in her head, not the real Mercy. A voice that’s trying to convince her she’s not dying. She’s not so sure.

*

When she wakes up, it feels too soon.

“I could not have gotten a good sleep from it, I suppose?” Widow says, rubbing her head as she sits up. She had originally thought she was alone, but now she sees Ana slumped over some paperwork. She looks up sharply when Widow speaks. She looks exhausted.

“A good sleep?” Ana laughs, and she looks so relieved like she might actually cry, and that would be awful. Ana – and when did she stop being _Amari_ – crying over _her._ “You slept for fifteen days.”

Widow doesn’t really know what to say to that. She just kind of stares.

She can’t help but notice Mercy’s not here.

“She’s sleeping,” Ana says, because somehow she always knows. “I will get her.”

“Do not wake her,” Widow protests.

“No, trust me,” says Ana, already standing. “She will murder me if she finds out I didn’t wake her immediately.”

Widow has a few minutes to try to gather her thoughts, wonder how much sleep Ana has gotten recently, wonder how much of that lost sleep is over Widow. Widow wonders if she looks really awful. Not that she’s ever particularly cared about her appearance before. She knows she’s beautiful.

Mercy bursts through the doors, panting like she’s been running. She looks almost spooked when she sees Widow, like she doesn’t believe she’s really real. Ana looks at them both and then mumbles something about making a coffee.

Mercy walks carefully to Widow’s bedside and says, “You’re awake.”

Widow says, “Unfortunately.”

Mercy scowls at her. “I wasn’t sure you’d ever wake up.” She hesitates, not sitting down as if waiting for an invite. Widow raises an eyebrow, and she sits, flushing. “How are you feeling?”

“Like I’ve been thrown from a plane.”

“Not funny.” Mercy looks shaken up. Too pale. Too thin.

“Have you been sleeping? And eating?”

“You’re not my mother,” says Mercy, a little sulkily. “I’ve been monitoring you most of my time, so I haven’t been receiving much sleep. And eating has been hard. I was worried.”

“About me?”

“Of course about you, you absolute _idiot,_ ” Mercy says. “You nearly killed yourself in your stupid heroic act! If the others hadn’t arrived so soon after…” She shakes her head. “There is somebody else who will want to see you.”

Widow is baffled. “Who?”

Mercy leaves silently and returns five minutes later with Reaper. He looks annoyed, as usual, but his face relaxes into something like relief when he sees Widow.

“You are here,” Widow says.

Reaper rolls his eyes at her. “After not taking you down when I should have, Talon hardly would have wanted me back, anyway.” He seems like he wants to say something, and then changes his mind. “Good that you’re alive,” he spits out, almost like an insult, and leaves hastily.

“He’s just embarrassed,” Mercy says, as if Widow would be hurt.

Widow isn’t. She can’t stop smiling. This is such an unfamiliar sensation. She feels – is this happiness? It’s a possibility.

“I’ll let you sleep more,” Mercy says, softly, fondly, and she’s gone before Widow can stop her.

Widow sleeps, and she doesn’t dream.

*

It is still two weeks before they let her leave the infirmary. When she does, she doesn’t go to her room. She finds herself a nice spot by the cliffs and settles down there. The weather’s warmer now, and the days longer. There’s something so calming about the endlessness of the ocean as it stretches out before her.

That’s where Mercy finds her hours later, feet dangling so that the sea brushes them.

“You should be looking after yourself,” she scolds, but she sits down next to Widow anyway.

“This is looking after myself,” says Widow. She looks at Mercy, and something tugs in her chest. The woman is dressed in casual clothes, and her blonde hair cascades down her neck, down her back. Widow has never seen something so beautiful in her life.

“You can have it,” Mercy says, hesitantly. “If you want.”

It wasn’t a fevered dream.

Widow says, “But maybe you were right. About everything.”

“I don’t care if I was right or not.” Mercy looks at her then – properly. “You jumped out of a helicopter to save me.”

Widow cups her face, pulls her in. Mercy kisses like she does everything – gently, fiercely, maybe a little angrily. Widow doesn’t want to stop.

She does, though, to say, “Well, that’s rather self-centred. It was not _just_ for you.”

Mercy says, “You're awful."

Yes – happiness. Maybe this could be it.

 

 

 


End file.
